The Butcher (21 page)

Which they never would. Edward had been careful. He was always careful. There was a reason he'd cut off Jamie Chavez's hand, and there was a reason he'd left Bonnie Tidwell's intact.

That being said, there was nothing significant about human hands for Edward. But serial killers had to have a signature, and severed hands and a cleaver had seemed as good as any. He needed the cops to believe that a serial killer was at work with Jamie. However, he didn't want them thinking that at all with Bonnie.

Nothing was spontaneous, and nothing happened accidentally. And nothing hyped the media and the bloodthirsty public into a frenzy more than a serial killer at large.

At first, creating the Butcher had been a strategic career move. Catch a serial killer, get famous, get promoted. Edward had planned it all from the start. You didn't make chief of police by catching smalltime criminals nobody remembered.

But then . . . he'd gotten to like it.

More so than that even, he'd started to crave it. And that's when he knew he needed to stop.

Stopping had not been easy. There'd been a few slips, but it had been easy to make those killings seem random. Nobody's hand had been chopped off in any of Edward's post-1985 kills, because Edward didn't personally give a rat's ass about hands.

He did, however, have a thing for hair. He liked the way it smelled, especially when freshly washed. It reminded him of brushing Lucy's
hair when she was little, something he always did before putting her to bed. Maybe the urges had started then . . . he didn't know, and it didn't much matter. Edward had never been a “why” person. He never questioned motivation—his, or anyone else's.

And now the urges were back. Rather than fight them, he had decided that the Butcher would come out of retirement. He was never meant to go peacefully into the night, to die and then never be remembered. He had plans. One more kill, and soon the media would be contacting Edward for the former chief of police's thoughts on the matter. Was he ready for his close-up once again?

Why yes. Yes, he was.

The pager in his lap buzzed, and the sensation wasn't unpleasant. His prescription was ready.

The pharmacist, a woman in her mid-forties and quite attractive, smiled at him as she handed him the white paper bag with his Viagra and painkillers inside.

“Have you taken these medications before?” she asked, and the glint in her eye made Edward wonder if it was more than just a professional question. He liked to think it was, even if he was more than three decades her senior. Her name tag read
NANCY
.

“No, I haven't, Nancy. Never needed it before.”

A smile wrestled the corners of her lips upward, but she fought to control it. “The Celebrex can cause skin reactions and stomach ulcers, so make sure you let your doctor know right away if you experience either of these. As for the Viagra, you're on the lowest dose at twenty-five milligrams, so hopefully you won't experience too many side effects. I'm sure your doctor mentioned headaches, flushing, and stomach upset. Sometimes, and this is not very common, your eyes will get a little weird and colors won't look quite right.”

“I'll
be sure to watch out for that.” Edward couldn't tell for sure, but he thought the pharmacist had nice tits under her white coat.

“There's more information in the packet.” She leaned forward a little and dropped her voice. “Also, sometimes men experience erections that last a long time, as in more than four hours. If that happens to you, don't try to wait it out. Go to the ER right away, or else you could, you know, do permanent damage.”

Edward smiled. “Noted.”

She returned the smile. “Have a great day, Mr. Shank.”

He left the pharmacy and climbed into his Cadillac. The retirement home was a good twenty minutes away, and he certainly could have saved himself some time and a little gas if he'd just allowed the young doctor to call in his prescription to the pharmacy on-site at Sweetbay Village, as the man had originally offered. But Dr. Ross had been correct in assuming that Edward didn't want anyone there to know he was using Viagra. Men could get embarrassed about that type of thing.

The doctor was half right. Edward didn't want anyone there to know he had a prescription for Viagra . . . because the Viagra wasn't for him.

It was for someone else. The guy just didn't know it yet.

All Matt wanted to do was forget the past week had ever happened. Between his near fling with the Fresh Network producer and the awkward-as-hell night where Sam had caught him masturbating, he wanted to press the backspace button on his life and delete everything that had happened over the past little while. And let's not forget that he had accidentally killed his friend, PJ Wu. And then dismembered the guy's body . . . not so accidentally.

It was horrific. All of it. And he knew that if he let himself think about it too long, he might lose it completely.

Karen, the sexy TV producer, was becoming less and less sexy with every annoying text message and voicemail she sent. She'd been back in San Francisco for a few days, but even from eight hundred miles away, she was nearing bunny boiler territory. Matt was half expecting her to show up at any moment with a knife, screaming, “I will not be ignored!”

And Sam . . . that was another story. The two of them were barely speaking, and the argument they'd had the other night had spiraled
into a giant clusterfuck. Yeah, it was totally embarrassing to be caught red-handed (
har dee har har
), but goddammit, the reason his girlfriend had felt the need to spy was even worse. She had seen him with Karen that night at the Pink Door, and had assumed he was sleeping with the producer. She wasn't totally off base, but he'd gotten defensive anyway, and they'd shouted at each other until she'd left in tears.

And to compound matters, Matt did feel like a dick. Deep down, everything his girlfriend had yelled at him was true. He was emotionally unavailable and unwilling to commit. He never put their relationship first. His career mattered more to him than anything, and yes, he probably would end up alone if he didn't get his priorities straight.

And he had done so many things—so many awful, horrific things—that he wasn't proud of. He knew he had to change. He just didn't know how. Add to that the pressure of the TV deal and the angst over PJ being labeled as missing . . . it was so overwhelming, Matt didn't know where to start.

Matt could tell that the restaurant was controlled chaos outside his office door, but he chose to remain holed up at his desk. There was too much to catch up on, and he wasn't in the mood to talk to anyone. He wondered, and not for the first time, how he'd managed to get so far away from the reason he'd become a chef in the first place. Other than the day he'd cooked a meal for Detective Sanchez and the cooking they made him do for the TV show, when was the last time he'd truly been an artist in the kitchen? He crunched numbers all day, told people what to do, and signed paychecks. He hadn't gone into this business so he could cook his grandmother's food on television wearing a tank top that probably made him look like a douche bag.

What he wouldn't give for his
lola
to still be alive. She'd always been a calming presence in his life.

His phone vibrated and he checked it quickly. Another text from Karen. It was her fourth message of the morning and it was barely 10 a.m. If he didn't text back, this would continue the rest of the day, so he finally responded with a smiley face emoticon. That ought to shut her up, for a little while, anyway. He then deleted the entire text chat.

There was no denying that Matt's personal life was in the shitter.

A knock on his door caused him to swivel around in his chair. One of his new hires, Sara, poked her head in.

“Matt? There's someone here to see you. Says he's a friend of yours? But he's wearing a badge, so I think he's a cop.”

He sat upright. “Sanchez?”

“Yes, I think so.”

“Tell him I'll be there in a minute, I just have to finish something up.”

She nodded and closed the door behind her.

Matt took a deep breath and fought off the panic that had instantly arose. What did Sanchez want now? He'd already told the man everything, and he couldn't imagine what other questions the detective could possibly have. Picking up his phone, he wondered if he should call the Chief before speaking to Sanchez. He hadn't talked to his grandfather in days, and still had no idea what the old man had done with the body. It was probably best he didn't know, but now Matt was nervous.

He made the call, and it went straight to voicemail.
Shit
.

Heading out of the office and into the bar area, he found Sanchez standing even though there were several bar stools available.

“Bob,” Matt said, extending his hand. “You must have liked the food. Two visits in one week.”

“Sorry to bother you, Matt.” Sanchez didn't smile. “I'll be quick. I just wanted to let you know that I have an update on PJ Wu.”

“Do you want to talk in my office?”

Matt led him back to the small office, which now seemed even tinier with the two men in it. He took a seat at the desk and Sanchez eased himself into the small chair Matt had in the corner.

“I'll get right to the point,” the detective said. “We found PJ's body.”

Matt blinked, unsure how to respond, and his mind immediately whirled through the last few episodes of
Law & Order: SVU
he'd seen. How would a person who
wasn't
PJ's killer react to what the detective had just said?

“You said body,” Matt finally said. “That means he's dead?”

“Yes. I'm very sorry.”

“Well, shit.” Matt exhaled and leaned back in his chair. His heart was racing a mile a minute, and there was nothing he could do to help that, but he imagined that a reaction like that would probably be okay in a situation like this. “What the fuck happened?”

“It's a homicide.”

“He was murdered?” Matt couldn't tell if Sanchez was trying to gauge Matt's reaction for any sign of guilt, or whether the man always stared this intensely while he was in work mode. Matt maintained eye contact with the detective and tried not to squirm in his chair. “When? How?”

“He's been dead for a few days, it looks like. His body was found at the dump.”

“Someone killed him and left him at the dump? I don't understand.”

“Well, that's the thing.” Sanchez's tone was casual but his eyes remained focused on Matt's face. “We're ruling it a homicide because of the way he was found. But we still haven't determined the specific cause of death.”

“The way he was found?” Matt knew he was repeating everything the detective was saying, but that somehow also seemed the appropriate thing to do for a person in shock. “I'm sorry, Bob. I still don't understand.”

“His body was not . . . intact.”

Matt winced.

“Sorry, Matt. I know that must be hard to hear.”

“Just tell me the whole thing.”

Sanchez seemed a bit more relaxed now, and he crossed one leg over the other. “We found his head, a foot, and part of his torso. We're still looking for the rest.”

“Holy. Shit.”

“As I said, we haven't determined the actual cause of death, but there appears to be some type of trauma to the head consistent with a fall.”

“Which . . . which could have been accidental.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Because I can't imagine anyone killing PJ,” Matt said, and it was the truth. “He was a nice guy. A regular guy. It wasn't like he had enemies.” That was also the truth.

“Well, that may be, but people who die accidentally don't then end up dismembered at the city dump.”

Why had the Chief put him in the dump? Why not just Dexter him and dump him in the Sound, weighted down with rocks?

Because the Chief doesn't have a boat, you idiot,
his mind replied.

Matt cleared his throat. “I don't know what to say. This is absolutely horrible. Has his family been notified?”

“We told them this morning. If there's any friends you'd like to tell, or if you'd like to tell the staff yourself, that's fine.”

“What do I tell them?” Matt's voice was dull, and again, it was a genuine reaction. “Do I say he was murdered?”

“You can say whatever you feel comfortable saying. I'd wait, though, until the end of the day. This kind of news can be really upsetting.”

“Yeah.” Matt shifted in his seat. “Yeah, it is.”

“Is there anything new you'd like to tell me?”

“What do you mean?” Matt stiffened. “I don't know anything more than what I already told you.”

The detective smiled slightly. “I just meant, is there anything that might have occurred to you that you maybe didn't think of the last time we talked? Memory is a funny thing.”

Matt shook his head. “No, I'm sorry. I wish I had something that could help you.”

“You said he had no enemies, that he was a regular guy.”

“Yes, that's true.”

“But everybody knew he had a gambling problem.”

“Well, yeah, like I said last time, that was no secret. He was into sports betting. Got in over his head a few times, but it didn't seem to be anything an advance check couldn't cover. As least so far as I was aware.”

“We checked into his cell phone records going back six months. He'd been receiving regular texts from a bookie who works for Keyser Wong.” Matt's face must have been blank, because Sanchez continued. “He's a well-known member of one of the Chinese gangs around here.”

“I had no idea.” Again, a truthful statement.

“Oh yeah,” Sanchez said. “And they're nasty pieces of work. They've been known to dismember their victims once they've been killed, to make . . . how you say . . . a point. Your friend isn't the first one to end up at the dump.”